


let me be your coffee pot

by smauglocki



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Cherik - Freeform, How do these tags works?, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:21:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smauglocki/pseuds/smauglocki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Charles is a part-timer at a small coffee shop. Erik is a mysterious customer who hates all that fancy skinny-decaf-latte-with-one-vanilla-shot stuff and they flirt outrageously over pastries whenever Charles is on break."</p><p>Fill for: http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/6527.html?thread=9948543#t9948543</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the problem with coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'I Wanna Be Yours' by Arctic Monkeys.
> 
> I feel like there's a lack of coffee shop AUs in the fandom and yeah, I tried.  
> (And I don't even drink coffee.)

Nothing says good morning quite like coffee. Particularly the French roast, fine ground, freshly brewed kind: any less than that might as well end up in the trash. 

The same way the Venti, sugar-free, vanilla soy, double shot, no foam, extra hot, Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha with light whip and extra syrup(To clear the misunderstanding, Erik did not order this himself. The lady in front did, and out of confusion, Erik deadpanned: "I'll have whatever she's having," under the impression that Starbucks coffee is supposed to be good) is going down the chute. 

This isn't the first time either. He's tried a triple grande, one pump caramel, one pump white mocha, two scoops vanilla bean powder, extra ice hazelnut macchiato with two shots poured over the top with caramel drizzle under and on top of the whipped cream, double cupped('Are all Starbucks orders at least a paragraph long?,' Erik wonders) before, too, and it ended up in the exact same place as the tall, quad shot, no whip, extra dry skinny matcha green tea latte with sugar-free syrup, an extra shot, and cream that someone bought for him as a joke. Which, if an explanation is still required, would be the garbage can. 

There's nothing Erik despises more than _hipster_ coffee. 

(Yes, he does say that particular word through his gritted teeth. It does not deserve to inhabit the tip of his tongue, not when their kind appear to be so keen on continuing their unabating attempts to poison him with what they call 'coffee'.) 

It's only unfortunate his coffee machine has, after all the battles and wars and scars and loss, succumbed to felo de se on a day Mr. Shaw's making rounds. That devilish old goon's never got anything pleasant up his sleeves. Not to mention the ridiculous cowboy hat the man likes to wear and that menacing little pet, the Ms. I'm-cold-and-bitter-and-something-with-an-F, he brings with him everywhere, who has these vulturous glares that are just as frosty as her name. Marilyn Monroe might've said diamonds are a girl's best friend, but in this case, the pet-woman might as well be a diamond herself; with that pompous and imperturbable demeanour, only her conceited smirks proved her to be capable of emotions. If one of them alone is a trauma, then the two of them together would be a modern remake of Titus Andronicus with a touch of Macbeth. 

On that note, he would like to fix a statement he's made earlier. 

There's nothing Erik despises more than _hipster_ coffee.. and Mr. Shaw.


	2. that'll probably leave a stain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik is stuck in a long line at Starbucks.

_8:30AM; London, England._

His body's screaming for caffeine and the pounding in his head is getting worse. Everything seems to be irritating him; the tippity-tap of the sole of his shoes as it meets the ground, the constant wind blowing at his face(And possibly messing up his spotless attire), the chattering of people he is currently speed-walking past('Do people _ever_ shut up?') and even the sound of his breathing and the beating of his own heart are terrible distractions. Erik presumes this is what it feels like to be 'driven over the edge'. 

He'd much rather be driven off a cliff.

(Which he has, twice. It's a surprise his limbs are still functioning. In all actuality, it's a surprise he's still alive at all, with him going around, doing all sorts of things that is more likely to send him to an early grave than anything else. The proof would be in the metal plates he has imbedded throughout his body to keep his broken bones intact. He can't even walk through the metal detectors in airports without being called at or pulled in for thorough questionings at least twice. And honestly? The way he glares daggers at the security guards doesn't make it any better. It's a pain in the arse, and Erik cannot blame this on anyone but himself. He does have these itching suspicions that Mr. Shaw could be behind his disastrous holidays, though.. What with the man and his evil pet and his evil-er schemes. Erik can tell there's something beneath that maladroit surface — the man is either planning on a massacre or world domination in that funny head of his, he's certain.

Not that Erik doesn't have those kinds of thoughts. 

At least he has them _occasionally_. He's quite sure Mr. Shaw has them _every single day_. 

And it's not like Erik would ever act upon those ridiculous ideas, either. All he's doing is _imagining_ it; what's the harm in that? 

 _He's_ not harmful. _Mr. Shaw_ is.)

Erik shivers when the wind ravages him once again, and regrets not bringing his gloves with him on such a chilly day. He sighs. London weather; always so unpredictable. Maybe he shouldn't have trusted the weather forecast, after all. It's pointless. It marvels Erik how meteorologists still go on with their 'work' each day. Erik had thought it'd be obvious by now that their so-called 'research' aren't as reliable as they are credited to be.

He's living in a world of goldfish.

No surprise about that.

He shakes his sleeves back to get a look at his watch. It's 8:34AM. He has a couple of minutes to survey the area, perhaps look for a decent coffee shop to delay the paroxysm of frustration his brain is about to go through. He stops in his tracks and looks around. There's a Starbucks about a street away, and he promises himself he will not go there unless his brain _really_ is on the verge of exploding. He wouldn't want to make a mess of London's architectonic. His blood would leave _stains_. The thought of it makes Erik shudder.

He will absolutely not tarnish London; the city that amounts to much more than just a pastiche of various architectural styles. Ludwig Mies van der Rohe and Sir Christopher Wren would not be proud of him if he were to do such a thing. 

As if on cue, his brain rewards him with a slap of migraine. 

Starbucks it is, then.

\-----

_8:40AM; Starbucks._

Erik growls at his watch. He's going to be late today, and it's all because of the absurd amount of people waiting in line for coffee.. at _Starbucks_. Well, of course, his caffeine addiction is to be blamed, too, but Erik would rather blame _hipsters_ and their horrible taste in overly expensive coffee and Mr. Shaw for not funding the office for a simple _coffee machine_. 

Erik either needs to find a decent coffee shop(It's not his fault the only coffee shop he really knows is Starbucks. It really isn't, he insists), threaten Mr. Shaw, buy a new coffee machine or set his addictions straight. 

Where is he going to find the time for any of that?

The line moves forward and so does Erik, but not without a grumble.

\-----

_8:42AM; Back out in the streets of London._

He leaves the coffee shop empty-handed.

No, it's not because he could not stand to wait in line any longer. 

Yes, it is because the cup of black coffee, _plain black coffee_ , he must emphasise, the Starbucks barista made him tasted like sugar. 

What happens next is entirely up to your imagination.

(Here's the actual story: Once he'd taken a sip of it, Erik turns and smiles at the barista, even gone as far as tipping the young lad.. 

.. then pulls off the top of the coffee cup and pours the drink onto the sparkling marble floor(which looked like it had been recently mopped, too. That makes it all the better). 

And drops the empty cup onto the puddle.

And strides out of the coffee shop like nothing had happened.)

At the moment, Erik is waiting at the crosswalk. He is ticked off and is abusing the button, pressing it repeatedly as if it would make things any better. The fingers on his right hand is twitching and Erik yearns for a cigarette. He imagines a cup of coffee in hand but the twitching only gets worse.

Erik wonders if such a thing as 'caffeine rehab' exists, because he might consider applying. 

But then he wouldn't have time for that, either. Not unless he takes a holiday(which he hasn't in years, mind you), but that would never happen.

Because, really, what if some idiot burns the building down? What if a terrorist attack occurs? What if someone _takes over his project_?

He can't imagine anything worse.

The light finally, _finally_ , turns green and Erik crosses the street. He walks alongside a bunch of other people who all seem to have coffee cups in their hands. They all seem to be keeping a distance of at least a foot from him, too(Not that he's complaining), and that makes Erik want to scoff. 

If the world was as an ocean, he'd be a shark. A great white shark, at that. 

A great white shark who absolutely has no taste for these petty goldfish which aren't supposed to be in the ocean in the first place. 

(Is he making sense? He thinks he is.)

Just as he's about to reach the other side of the street, a woman runs into him and spills coffee on his shoe. 

"Oops," she giggles, her blonde hair swaying with her movements. "Sorry. I hope that doesn't stain."

"Hey! Get back here and pay for the damages," Erik demands through gritted teeth. 

"No time, sugar," she answers, "The light will be changing soon, too, and my ma used to say: it's no use crying over spilt milk."

"But this isn't milk — it's coffee!"

"No use crying over milk _and_ coffee, then," once she gets to the other side, she hollers over at him, "If you're going to sue anybody, try the coffee shop around the corner. That's where I got my café au lait."

Erik hops onto the pavement before a car hits him(The light has turned red in the course of their 'conversation') and watches as the woman sashays away. There should be license plates on people as there are on cars, he thinks, it'll make things much more convenient for lawyers. Sadly (and luckily, since he'd probably just violated the whatever law at that Starbucks shop back there), he isn't at liberty to enforce such a law.

What he is at liberty to do, though, is to go to that 'coffee shop around the corner' the woman mentioned earlier. Rest assured, he isn't going to be suing them(not any time soon, that is, but he'll be keeping the trick up his sleeves once the time comes). Instead, he'll be checking if the coffee there is worth the stain on his leather shoe.

(And it better be worth it, or all hell might break loose.

You really wouldn't want Erik to pull a 'Mr. Shaw' on you.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completed!  
> (Sorry about the quality. It's mostly written in much of a haste. Kind of. Not really.)
> 
> Also: no offence to people who like Starbucks. As I've mentioned before, I have never been to Starbucks before, nor do I drink coffee. Call this a stereotypical thing, if you'd like.
> 
> And yes, Erik is an architect.


	3. it was such a mellow day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Welcome to the Lab." 
> 
> We've got good coffee and even better baristas.

Erik steps into the coffee shop, and, without delay, a pang of contrite hits him like a punch. It's unmistakably that-guy-who's-yet-to-bring-sexy-back playing in the background, and as seen by how his body has gone taut, left eye uncontrollably twitching with a strand of his slicked back hair dangling in front of his face, it's clear that his 'mainstream sensor' has gotten to work. 

_[I-I can't deny the way you caught my eye-ye]_

"Welcome to the Lab," says the boy behind the counter. He's got freckled cheeks, unsettling blue eyes and very, very red lips('Is he wearing lipstick?' Erik wonders). The corner of his mouth is quirked up into a smile; one that is almost contagious, if it weren't for Erik's current grouchy mood. "Can I help you?"

_[and then something strawberry filled up the sky-y]_

The yellow apron seems to be tied a little bit too tight around the boy's waist and it's clinging onto him. Erik pretends he doesn't notice the way the barista is swiping his tongue over his bottom lip, and distracts himself by glancing over at the coffee machines(First rule in detecting hipster coffee shops: overly expensive coffeemakers). Not the same ones they have in Starbucks: check. The store's design might be a little bit too retro, but he might as well give it a chance. 

_[And everything on you intoxicates]_

The barista moves away from the pastry shelves and prances over to the counter to give Erik his full attention. He's straightened his back and is tugging on the apron, smoothening the crinkles. Erik watches the way his little hands travel across the fabric. He also notices the boy rocking his heels back and forth, probably waiting for him to make his order, and clears his throat. 

"I," Erik says, and momentarily pauses to recollect his vocabulary. "Think." You're beautiful, he finishes in his head. He might've just forgotten how to speak English. He's certain the boy thinks he's an idiot of some sort; he has given him quite the proof to come to that conjecture with his fidgets and gaping. Erik wants to run into a wall or hit himself repetitively with his briefcase, or perhaps, do both.

Yet the boy doesn't rush him, nor does his smile fade away. 

_[ (It's a mystery)_

_I don't know why I let you kick in my 'do not disturb' sign]_

"I think," he continues, "I need something with a lot of caffeine."

"I can tell," the boy says and turns away to do whatever the heck baristas do with coffee grinders. "Do you like it sweet?"

"No," Erik replies, "But from the smell of that, you might be able to start a new habit for me."

The boy laughs. He laughs like he's being tickled. In fact, it's more like a chortle, but with way too much giggling, and it's so euphoric it makes Erik wonder how else he could make him bless him with another one of those smiles. 

"I'll do my worst," answers the barista. The beguiling grin he flashes Erik seems to paint his lips into an even redder shade, and it could've, without a doubt, shamed a garden of the reddest roses with its colour. The boy turns his back to him, and Erik is met with the sight of his perky behind.

It really isn't something a man who is already on the verge of hyperventilating should be seeing.

Erik remembers an intern advising him to get laid. He'd ended up scowling and sending the kid out to his seventh coffee run of the day. If he recalls correctly, it was raining quite heavily that day, too. 

Now, he's thinking of buying the intern a drink.

The more he thinks about it, the more he wants to smash his head against some hard surface. He probably has really been letting his dick wilt with this underuse(He doesn't even masturbate anymore, not even in the showers or when he has a bloody hard on. Can you believe that?), and he's convinced that it is the most logical explanation for this concupiscent churning in the pit of his stomach — it is most definitely _not_ because of the way the barista is bending over to pick up the.. _something_ he'd just dropped on the floor. 

_[But I guess your mouth in motion got me so high]_

According to his watch, it's already 8:49AM and he's running late for work. 

But he doesn't budge, not as long as the boy keeps on smiling like there's nothing wrong with the world. 

Erik doesn't mind sitting through a lecture of chiding or two. 

\-----

Erik doesn't remember how long he's been standing there, watching the rose boy(Yes, Erik has taken the honour of giving the boy a nickname) as he moves around the fortress of all things coffee. Those brown strands of hair flopping in all directions, that siren-like voice humming with the horrible music, accompanied by the slight swaying of his hips, and feet tapping to the beat like he's on top of the world(Little does he know, he's already on the top of Erik's world) is a sight that is far more fulfilling than any amount of caffeine. The possible stain on his shoe slips away from his mind like it's never even been there and is replaced by the image of the lovely barista. Even Erik's frown has flipped itself upside-down. 

"A special cup of coffee for the man with the crooked tie," a voice calls and Erik turns. He can smell the coffee in the air; it's robust, with this hint of sweetness hidden amongst the bitter that makes it almost shy with coquettishness, much like the barista behind it. For a brief moment, he wonders if the rose boy smells like that, too, and had to resist the temptation to lean in and burrow his face into his neck as he receives the cup of coffee from the boy's hands.

"What," Erik asks, "Is this?"

"Coffee," the rose boy replies with a raised brow, "Have a taste." 

Erik does. 

The ridiculously named coffee shop with the ridiculous exterior that plays ridiculous music and has a ridiculously good looking barista that makes ridiculously good coffee may have won itself another regular customer(Assuming that they do have regulars — the shop is so hauntingly empty it may as well be haunted).

Erik doesn't say anything about the coffee, though, only, "Is my tie really crooked?"

A delighted chuckle is all he gets in reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incoherent musings. I just can't help but love how red James' lips are. They look very very very kissable, no?
> 
> Lyrics from Justin Timberlake's Strawberry Bubblegum.


	4. the shaw crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw vs. Erik:  
> 1-0

"You're fifteen-pi minutes and forty five- forty six- forty seven seconds late, Lehnsherr. May I ask why?" Shaw's voice welcomes him into the office.  

 _No you may not._ "Overslept."

"Overslept what?" 

"Overslept, _sir_." 

"Oh, no need to call me _that._ Just 'boss' will do." Shaw flashes one of his I-help-old-women-cross-the-streets-and-donate-all-my-money-to-abandoned-little-puppies smile. Erik would've(actually, would not, and would never, have) been fooled if he didn't know any better.

He reciprocates with a sardonic grin that may or may not have shown too much teeth. "Fine. Boss." 

Shaw giggles like a thirteen-year-old swooning over a One Direction cardboard cutout. Then, just as Erik is about to slip away to his atelier, Shaw stops mid-giggle and Erik shudders.

"I'm not done with you yet, Erik. Why don't you put your briefcase down, and come on in to my office? After all, it's been a while since we've talked, and seeing as to how you're not in a hurry to get any work done.. We might as well, no?" says Shaw.

Erik clenches his jaw. "I have a meeting in," he takes a beat to glance at his watch, "approximately fifteen minutes, give or take, and I believe I've already wasted enough time as is. A conversation would, no doubt, be inconvenient. Unless, of course, you'd like to go over the previous meeting's minutes with me?"

That earns him a good view of Shaw's scrunched up face. (Of course Sebastian Shaw hates meetings -- after all, what is the point of wasting time listening to unwanted opinions on what he plans to do next when he knows he will always win in the end? He pays these people for their proficiency, not for their _ideas_.) Shaking his head, Shaw says, "Nicht, nicht. I'd rather not."

 _That's what I thought._ "Now if you'll excuse me."

"You are excused," Shaw says, as he takes a step closer towards Erik and examines him top to bottom before meeting him in the eyes, "but you owe me your lunch break for being late this morning. Verstanden?"

Erik sighs. Suppose there's nothing he can do about that. "Understood." 

\-----

Erik had originally planned to go back to 'The Lab' for his lunch break, but due to the Shaw crisis, his plans have been delayed to either tomorrow morning or today night. For that, he sighs. Though the coffee has placated him to an extent, the credit has to be given to the rose boy for giving him the patience to deal with Shaw this morning. Even so, he doubts the ten minutes he had (to creepily stare at the barista) in the coffee shop would be enough to keep his rage from seething through, and he might just end up throwing Shaw off the 42nd floor of the building(which might not be such a bad thing, apart from the fact that Erik would have to go to jail, or worse, receive a death sentence, if he were to do that).

He slides back in his seat with a groan and plants his face onto the desk, completely ignoring the paper he has had scattered across the surface. He's not going to survive today, is he?

Right at that moment, a chair rolls over to Erik's side and there's an elbow nudging on his ribcage. Erik doesn't lift his head off the desk and merely turns it to the side, conveniently resting his cheek on it instead; but when he sees who this new company of his is, he doesn't hesitate to return to his original, and more comfortable, position. 

"Oh, come on, Erik," says the beautiful, dark-skinned woman who is now jabbing at his flank with her felt-tip pen. "Cheer up."

Erik lifts his head up just to give her his infamous are-you-fucking-kidding-me look and says, ".. Do you honestly expect me to 'cheer up' when I, frankly speaking, have got a "lunch date" with Shaw which is due to come in less than three hours?"

"Well, no, but--"

"Exactly. Now leave me to my decaffeinated moping, or make yourself useful and go buy me a cup of coffee."

"Hell no. I'm not your intern, Lehnsherr."

Erik opens his mouth to protest, but she quickly cuts him off, saying, "Baby, you've lost your privilege to an intern ages ago, remember? We tried telling you, 'Interns aren't hired for coffee runs, Erik. They're here for _work_ _experience_.' Do you remember what you said to that, Erik? You said, 'Coffee runs are work experience. Besides, they all look like they had some cellulites to get rid off anyway. What better way to do that than to run? They should be grateful for what I'm letting them do for me.' Or has _that_ completely fallen out of that huge hole in your brain where the conscience is supposed to reside?"

Erik pauses to consider what she'd said, and deadpans, "I don't know what you're talking about."

The woman, otherwise known as Angel, snorts. "Right. Well, good luck with your lunch date with Shaw. Who knows, if you be good, he might even consider buying a coffee machine for the office or giving you a raise, if you know what I mean," and with a wink, she rolls her chair away and makes way towards her second victim of the day: her intern, Sean.

It's 9:52AM. Erik leans back in his seat and contemplates the possibility of an alien invasion in New York and the probability of Shaw dying from myocardial infarction within the next couple of hours, and is dishearten when he realises that the chances of him escaping the lunch date, even with the help of divine intervention, is very, very low.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life is a friend I wish I never had.
> 
> A short chapter. Sorry.


End file.
